locked to wittyinventor
There's nothing quite like the feel of his arms around her thin waist. Hands curled up in the fabrics of his expensive shirt and her whole being wrapped so deeply in the warmth of his musky scent, she gives a soft hum of contentedness. Tucked so close, breath fanning out over his shoulder, she wants to let her eyes close and to go to sleep. She's so close to the edge of unconsciousness, but the feel of his body holding hers tightly keeps her from ebbing into her slumber.
She wants to remember all of this, the feel of his body against hers and the warmth of his hands through her blouse on her waist. It's uncertain if she will, due to the fact that she's so far into sleepiness and his overzealous sharing of wine with her. Her head mosies over what his smell reminds her of, what convinced him to lay here beside her.
While her mind wanders, mostly on him, she can't help but wonder why he didn't take advantage of their situation. She was so willing to let him lay beside her, so entertained with the idea of sharing a bed with him without removing articles. She wonders how hard it is for him to stay here beside her with his eyes closed awake, because his breathing hasn't evened out just yet, and think of her body so close against his.
She lets out another soft sound of entertainment, tucking her chin another inch, and letting the bridge of her nose seal the space between his shoulder and her forehead. So what if she's drunk. She could care less what he thinks of her alcohol intake and the way she seems to be thinking of how funny it would be if she took off her blouse completely instead of the open four top buttons she managed before he decided it was bedtime.
Still, she doesn't want to ruin this. He's so close, so warm, so nice, and she knows the moment she lets her snark loose again it would unleash hell. Her hands tighten fractionally, digging her nails into the palms of her hands, and she murmurs his name under her breath as if to get his attention. She knows he's still awake, so there's no point in faking it. She only has a question for him.
She wants to remember all of this, the feel of his body against hers and the warmth of his hands through her blouse on her waist. It's uncertain if she will, due to the fact that she's so far into sleepiness and his overzealous sharing of wine with her. Her head mosies over what his smell reminds her of, what convinced him to lay here beside her.
While her mind wanders, mostly on him, she can't help but wonder why he didn't take advantage of their situation. She was so willing to let him lay beside her, so entertained with the idea of sharing a bed with him without removing articles. She wonders how hard it is for him to stay here beside her with his eyes closed awake, because his breathing hasn't evened out just yet, and think of her body so close against his.
She lets out another soft sound of entertainment, tucking her chin another inch, and letting the bridge of her nose seal the space between his shoulder and her forehead. So what if she's drunk. She could care less what he thinks of her alcohol intake and the way she seems to be thinking of how funny it would be if she took off her blouse completely instead of the open four top buttons she managed before he decided it was bedtime.
Still, she doesn't want to ruin this. He's so close, so warm, so nice, and she knows the moment she lets her snark loose again it would unleash hell. Her hands tighten fractionally, digging her nails into the palms of her hands, and she murmurs his name under her breath as if to get his attention. She knows he's still awake, so there's no point in faking it. She only has a question for him.